Room 221B Ravenclaw Tower
by xPhineasx
Summary: John Watson is a third year Gryffindor student in desperate need of a potions tutor. Meeting Sherlock Holmes though involves a lot more than just potions work. John's new friend has a penchant for mysteries, and John is along for the ride, like it or not.


Room 221B Ravenclaw Tower

Chapter 1:

A Study in Sapphire

**i. A Sweetness.**

Effie felt her stomach give an uncomfortable clench, and she wondered if it was possible to get food poisoning from the feast. She had never heard of the feast food making anyone sick before, but the nausea was growing worse. Even though it would utterly spoil her plans for the rest of the night, she briefly considered going to the Hospital Wing for a quick potion to settle her stomach.

"Gabby?" she said and paused. She tried to turn to her friend next to her. "I don't...feel good...I think that pie might have been a bit...undercooked, or...something," she said. If Gabby replied, Effie didn't remember what she said. There was a dizziness, and the sickening vertigo of falling.

"That'll teach you," came an angry hiss, blurring through the last lines of consciousness. Swimming through her addled brain, it was the last sound Effie remembered before it all went dark, and cold, and still.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 1. The Meeting of John and Sherlock<strong>

_In which John Watson is rescued from his insurmountable potions homework by the strangest boy he's ever met._

John Watson sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring hopelessly at the potions homework in front of him. He felt a sickening wave of helplessness and frustration take root in his mind. He was failing the class miserably, with no hope of pulling out of it alone. No matter what he did, potions exploded in his cauldron and each essay always ended up as a muddled, confused mess.

Potions were too tricky to brew, and John didn't have the patience for them, truth be told. His temperament was better suited to transfiguration and charms, where results were instant and colorful. Potions reminded him too much of science class back at his _old_ school, while transfiguration was one hundred percent undeniably magic.

He really loved magic. John had spent the first ten years of his life as a completely typical kid. Brown hair, brown eyes, squat figure. He enjoyed football, his pet hedgehog Gladstone, and video games. Well, the kinds of video games where you got to shoot people at least. He had been forgettable, living a forgettable life. Except for the occasional weird incidents; a floating bowl here, a football kicked nearly into orbit there, all of which were written off as flukes; nothing interesting had ever happened to John. Until well...now he was a wizard. Life was sort of funny that way.

At least it would be funny if he wasn't failing third year potions so miserably that the headmaster was likely to come down to him, tell him they had made a mistake, because clearly he was a muggle after all, and send him home.

John looked back down at the essay in front of him. Explain the properties of hornwort in relation to potion making? He didn't even know where to begin. He might as well have been trying to write an essay in Japanese.

In the midst of his utter misery, Mike Stamford walked up and sat down next to him. Mike was a few years older than John, and had grown up just around the block from him. They had known each other for years, though Mike had always been closer to John's sister than to him. Mike had habitually been the last kid chosen for teams when the neighborhood broke out into makeshift football games in the street. Even John, who was younger, was picked first because of his infamous orbital kick. At least, John had before he hurt his leg and stopped playing, but Mike had already gone away to school by then.

John had always assumed that Mike had gone off to boarding school when he turned eleven to escape his unpopularity, never suspecting just what kind of boarding school it was. It was a small world after all.

"You doing alright, John?" Mike asked. "You look...pained."

"I think I need a potions tutor, Stamford. This is killing me." John dropped his quill onto the blank parchment in defeat. He hated admitting that he needed help with _anything_, but academics had never been his strong suit and he had to own up to that.

"Funny you should say that," Mike said. He had a knowing kind of smile on his face. Mike's self confidence had really improved since going to Hogwarts. Finding out you have magic can do that to a person.

"What do you mean?" John asked him.

"I just happen to know someone who is in need of someone to tutor," Mike said. "He's rather in desperate need, in fact."

"Why?" John asked.

"I heard about it in the Slug Club. One of my Slug Club mates, Mycroft Holmes's younger brother needs to tutor someone for Slughorn. Apparently he either tutors another student, or Slughorn is going to give him a month's detentions for not turning in any of his essays."

"Why would I get tutored by someone who can't even turn in their essays?" John asked.

"It's not that he can't. It's that he didn't. He said they were boring," Stamford said with a shrug. "He's a bit of a genius."

"Well..." John was skeptical, but what did he really have to lose? There wasn't a line of potion experts breaking down his door for a student to tutor, and he needed the help. "Let me meet him then."

"I have to warn you...he's a bit...odd," Mike said.

"Odd how?" John asked him, suspiciously.

"You'll see."

. . .

Stamford led John into one of the back corners of Hogwarts's extensive library. Right in the corner, sitting on the floor, surrounded by several stacks of books that were nearly John's height, was a boy. Standing, he would have been taller than John, but much thinner. A messy mop of shaggy black hair stood contrasted like ink on rice paper against the boy's nearly sickly pale skin. His robes were wrinkled and sloppy looking, drooping over the sharp angles of his birdlike bones.

"That's a lot of books," John said with a small cough. Typical of a Ravenclaw, John thought, catching sight of the blue and bronze of the boy's tie.

The boy with the books looked up at John with unearthly blue eyes. They were the colour of the sky on a too hot summer day, when the sky seems almost white and translucent as it shimmers in the heat. John instantly had the feeling that he was being studied.

"Rugby or football?" the boy asked, standing up. He moved with a disjointed kind of grace, like it took his joints a moment to remember they were attached to other parts of his body, and then had to arch in strange ways to catch up to the rest of him. He seemed other-worldly.

"I'm sorry, what?" John said, startled by the left fielded question.

"Before you knew you were a wizard, you played sport in school, at least before you hurt your leg. Was is rugby or football?" The boy's eyes were darting up at down John's body before finally flitting to John's eyes, catching them with analytical intensity.

"...football. But-" John said, frowning.

"That did seem more likely," the boy straightened his tie. "So, you're here to be tutored by me."

"I...oh," John turned to Mike. "You told him about me?" He asked. It seemed like the most practical answer.

"Not a word," Mike replied, a small smile spreading over his face.

"Then...how?" John turned back to Sherlock.

"I observed you is all. I get handed my tutoring ultimatum this morning, and then a member of the Slug Club swings by with a student my own age who is exceedingly good at sport but not very good at school. Not hard to put together."

"How do you know I'm good at sport?" John asked, his frown deepening. He wasn't sure he liked this much. John, like many young boys who are still shifting through the baffling haze of puberty, was uncomfortable with the idea that a stranger could read him too easily.

"I know lots of things. Rather, I observed a lot of things."

"Oh? Like?" John asked.

" I know you are a third year student, like me. Unlike me you are a Gryffindor and a muggle born. You're on the Quidditch team, but you struggle in potions. You own an unruly pet hedgehog, and while your older brother writes you often, you don't write him back. Curious. Maybe it's because he treated you poorly for being a wizard while he's a muggle, more likely because you feel he is babying you. He probably has since you broke your ankle and it didn't heal properly. You're not happy about being tutored, but it's better this than fail. Did I mis anything?"

"I...how?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'll tutor you on Tuesdays and Thursdays after dinner, at half seven. Room 221B Ravenclaw tower should be vacant. Wait for me outside the tower and I'll have someone let you in. Don't be late." With that the boy picked up the book nearest him and streamed out of the library with hurried ease.

John stared after the boy for a long moment, his brain still trying to absorb the strange conversation. Finally John glanced at Mike, giving him a confused look.

"Yes, he's always like that," Mike laughed. "But I think he likes you. He was showing off."

. . .

John was sitting by the fireplace in Gryffindor tower. It was his favorite spot in the castle. Gryffindor tower was a warm place, all reds and golds, big chairs and a big fire. John felt just as at home there as he did back at his real home.

The potions homework in front of him was still confusing, to the point of utter torment. It was like someone had swapped third year potions with seventh year runes. It had resolved him to submit to Sherlock Holmes' tutelage. The boy might be strange, and talk faster than John's brain could follow, but he was his only hope.

Gladstone, John's easily startled little hedgehog, sat curled up on his lap. John kept hoping no one would walk in and make any loud sudden noises, lest he be left with a lap full of hedgehog spines again. The poor little creature had never adjusted to life surrounded by inquisitive cats, overly curious rats, and snacks that had a habit of exploding if left near someone's potions homework on accident. Sherlock had known about Gladstone somehow, John remembered. Sherlock at known about...well..everything. Even his ankle that made it hard for him to sprint anymore.

John looked up as Gregory Lestrade walked in. "Hey, Greg?"

"Wotcher, John." Greg walked over and leaned against the high backed arm chair John was sitting in. Greg was one of the few older students at Hogwarts, aside from Mike, who John got on with. He was the Quidditch captain and the head boy, a Gryffindor golden boy to be sure. John found himself rather in awe of the boy. He was fit, good looking enough to get any girl in the school, and honorable enough not to take advantage of that. He had a sort of laid back, rough around the edges energy that made him instantly likable. Greg was apparently a half blood, with a muggle mother and a wizard father. He had grown up with one foot in each world, listening to punk rock albums on charmed record players that never had to be plugged in. He was like a giant labrador.

"I'm going to have to miss the Quidditch try-outs on Tuesday," John said. "But, um, I still really want to be on the team."

"Miss it, what for?" Greg asked, frowning. Greg hated it when people missed normal practice, but to miss try-outs themselves was clearly a no-go. To be fair to everyone, Greg let new people try out for every position at Try-outs. He wanted the best of the best on his team, even if that meant dropping old friends for new talent most of the time. Still, Greg tended to be understanding, and John had to at least try and talk to him.

"I have to go meet a tutor," John sighed. "Otherwise I might flunk Potions." John really didn't want to miss try outs, and certainly didn't wast to jeopardize his position as beater. He was good at it, and ever since he had messed up his ankle, this had been the only sport he was able to really play. Not failing still took priority though. If he didn't get his grades up, he might get disqualified from the team by the first grading period anyway. "I'm not happy about it."

"Ah well..." Greg seemed to consider that. "I've seen you play plenty, kid. Don't worry about it."

"So, I'll still be on the team?" John asked.

"Of course. I doubt any other beater has your accuracy anyway." Greg gave him a smile. "Just make sure you can still make your Wednesday practices like normal, ok?"

"Of course." With that road bump taken care of, John turned back to the fruitless task of homework. Potions was useless, so he set it aside and went on to the more manageable stack of charms work he had.

. . .

Sherlock was sitting in the library, scouring over another pile of books. He was doing research, and if he was going to be distracted by tutoring, he was going to have to use his time efficiently. Hopefully he would be able to wrap up his preliminary research phase within the next day, and could then move on to actual experimentation by the end of the week. If this tutoring worked out, he might even be able to just ask the old windbag Slughorn for the ingredients he needed rather than stealing them.

There was a tiny jingle of a bell, and a tiny ball of fluffy fur hoped up on the stack of books to Sherlock's left.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock said without looking up.

"Um, hi Sherlock," came a small voice. A small girl, clad in yellow and black ran up and picked up the small kitten. "Sorry if Toby disturbed you. He's just been cooped up all day in my room so I thought I'd-"

"It's alright. Did you need something?" Sherlock asked. Molly's presence and quasi-almost companionship was unusual. She was in the Herbology club. They had met when she was still a first year and he was trying to sneak some incredibly important herbs out of the greenhouse for testing. She hadn't ratted him out, for reasons Sherlock had never bothered to deduce. She would often insist on sharing her various baked goods with him from time to time. Sherlock found her to be an annoying thing, almost like a little sister.

"I well..." the girl blushed. "I made some cookies, and there's too many for just my friends so..."

"Very good. You can leave them here," Sherlock said, turning a page in his book.

"Um, Sherlock...do you want...maybe...a pumpkin juice?" Molly cleared her throat. The tiny white kitten gave a meow.

"Not thirsty." Sherlock said. "Have to go meet someone in a moment anyway."

"Meet someone?" Molly parroted back, letting a tiny worried frown cross her face. "L-like someone special?"

"Not likely," Sherlock said, but didn't elaborate.

Molly seemed to titter on her feet for a moment before she gave a squeaky 'ok' and shimmied off. Sherlock sighed and hoped he could finish this chapter before the tutoring began. He'd just skip dinner. Food was boring.

. . .

John knocked awkwardly on the door to the Ravenclaw tower. He had never been in any of the other house dorms before and he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't welcome. The Eagle knocker on the door was eyeing him suspiciously.

"You really should just answer the riddle," the knocker said to him.

"But I don't know it. Sherlock said someone would let me in," John said for the third time.

"What if I give you an easy riddle? You are a_ Gryffindor_ after all. I could go easy on you. Here's an_ easy _one," the door knocker said. It stressed the word 'easy' like it meant to say 'stupid'. "What gets wetter the more you dry?"

"I don't know, just..." John gave a suffering sigh.

Just then the door swung open and a young girl, clad in the navy and bronze of her house, gave the eagle a rather exasperated look. "Aquila, are you tormenting this guy? I'm sorry about him. You're John right? Sherlock is waiting for you in study room 221B."

"Yes, thank you." John gave an appreciative smile to the girl and headed inside.

John walked through the main common room, looking around in awe at the high vaulted ceilings, the Roman columns and the academic hush that permeated the space. Ravenclaw tower seemed to have been plucked right out of Athens, garbed in sapphire, and set on top of Hogwarts. It was half library, half museum and left John suitably impressed.

The girl who opened the main door pointed him towards a row of small doors off to the side of the room. They were study rooms. Each one was equipped with a round table, a chalk board, a bookshelf and a high bright window. Deep navy carpet, bronze door handles, and dark wooden furniture made each room feel like a posh library. Gryffindor tower had nothing to rival it. John walked along until he found the one marked 221B.

22IB appeared to have been claimed by Sherlock out of all the other study rooms as _his._ While the other study rooms were all rather spartan in their bareness, save for the bookshelf and a houseplant in each, 221B was cluttered and erratic. Bits of scrolls were pinned to the walls, and large teetering towers of books swayed on the floor. The other study rooms seemed to have filled their bookshelves with a standard collection of student textbooks and reference books. 221B however sported a more unique collection. Ancient tomes of absurdly specific research sat side by side with the newest, most recent magical research journals. All in all, the space felt as alien and eclectic as the boy inside it.

"You're a little late." Sherlock was sitting at the desk in the study room. A small barn owl was perched on top of a stack of scrolls. It was tiny, tittering from side to side with its huge eyes. It gave a little hoot as John walked in.

"I had a bit of a row with your door knocker," John said, not really wanting to elaborate. "That's a pretty owl."

"This is Darwin. He's...useful." The little bird gave another small hoot at the sound of his name. John wondered what Sherlock was doing, naming a bird after a muggle biologist.

"Like...Charles Darwin?" John asked. "Is your owl named after _Charles Darwin_?"

"Do you know of any other Darwins? Yes, like Charles Darwin," Sherlock said dismissively. He glanced up from the book he had been reading and looked John over with his calculating eyes. "My mother wanted me to name him Aristotle, because my brother named his owl Plato. So they would _match,_" Sherlock said with clear distain. "Mother does enjoy trying to force us to match. But I think Aristotle was an old fool, and Darwin was rather clever as far as muggles go. It caused a row."

"Ah." John pulled out a chair and sat down, watching Sherlock carefully. "Can I start off with a rather frank question?"

"You already started with one, but as long as it's not boring or stupid you can ask another," Sherlock replied.

"How did you know all that about me?" The question had been nagging at John since their first meeting and he needed to know.

"Sorry what?"

"Yesterday when we met...you knew I used to play football and everything. How?" John elaborated his question. The interaction the day before had sparked his interest in the boy, sure, but also confused him greatly. He couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock had somehow read his mind, without even saying a verbal spell.

"Ah, I observed," Sherlock said as though it were that simple.

"Observed how?"

"Well, like this: You're wearing muggle trainers, for starters. The cut of your trousers suggests it was muggle made. Clearly then you are a muggleborn, that's obvious." Sherlock crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair."You have a series of small scratches on your left palm, something small, but not a cat. Could be a rat, but rats are more likely to bite anyway. Based on their spacing and depth, hedgehog is the best guess. The spikes." He shrugged.

"You play Quidditch," Sherlock continued. "Which mean you're athletic, and have been for years, but based on your stride, a lot of that muscle development was initially in your legs rather than your arms; that's unusual for a Beater. You probably had sport experience in the muggle world then, something that involved a lot of running. Rugby or Football. You stand slightly awkwardly, not like you are in pain, but like you broke a bone that healed poorly in your foot. Bit of a problem for football I assume, but not for Quidditch."

Sherlock took a breath before he continued. "The last detail is your brother. You have a letter in your bag, 'From Harry' it says. I spotted it in our conversation. It's post marked with a stamp, another hint you're muggleborn and your brother is a muggle. Why a brother and not a father? Look at that stamp. Dinosaurs, really? No adult would use them. However, you haven't opened the letter. No rush to answer it then. You probably don't get along. If he's writing you, he can't mind that you have magic, so the resentment comes from you. Older brother who's younger brother is away at school and has a history of injury? He's probably overbearing." Sherlock gave a self satisfied smirk. "How did I do?"

"...wow." John was staring at the other boy, eyes wide. Each step made perfect sense, and it wasn't like Sherlock was even wrong about anything, but each thought was so finely tuned, so precise, it seemed like some kind of magic. Maybe it was a kind of magic, John thought. Maybe he was a mind reader after all? He had got one thing wrong though. "I mean...wow."

Sherlock gave a smile. "Yes?" It was a funny kind of smile. The left side of his mouth slowly tugged itself up, changing the contours of the boy's face until the rest of his mouth got up the enthusiasm to follow. It was a slow, uncertain process, like Sherlock didn't have much experience at smiling.

"Only..." John cleared his throat.

"Only?" Sherlock frowned. That facial expression came much quicker. The tenuous smile instantly collapsed.

"Harry is my sister," John said. Everything else had been spot on though. The football, his ankle, his hedgehog, even the way Harry babied him was right.

"Harriet. Bollocks. I always miss something." Sherlock looked angry with himself, his fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm on the desk. "It's always something. Should have known. The hand writing should have been a tip. Slanted towards the bottom. Feminine touch..."

"And you did all that without any magic? No mind reading?" John asked. It didn't really matter if Sherlock had gotten that one tiny thing wrong. It was still incredible.

"Of course not," Sherlock waved the comment off. "Legilimency is unreliable anyway. People rarely pay much attention to their own muddled brains. Observation and deduction are more unbiased."

John let out a laugh. "Stamford wasn't kidding. You are brilliant."

Sherlock stopped his impatient tapping at that, and looked back over at John. The slightest flush of pink spread of Sherlock's face. It seemed as though the boy was unaccustomed to compliment. "Most people don't say that."

"Most people should," John replied.

Sherlock smiled more, that uneasy jumbled smile tugging itself into place again, and looked down at the potions book in front of him. "Let's get you tutored then."

. . .

Greg walked into the main Gryffindor common room, looking for John Watson. John was a good kid, and a good Beater. Greg prided himself on knowing what was going on with all his players on the team. He had been rather surprised to find out from Stamford that the tutor John had gone to meet was Sherlock Holmes.

"Hey Watson." John turned to face Greg as he spoke. John appeared to be working on homework and from the way he was actually filling out answers instead of sighing heavily at a blank page it seemed that the tutoring was helping.

"Oh, hey Greg," John said and nodded at him. Greg sat down opposite him.

"I hear you're getting tutored from Sherlock Holmes," Greg said, raising both his eyebrows. "I didn't know it was Sherlock you meant the other day."

"Oh...um...yeah. Mike suggested him," John said.

"...what do you think of him?" Greg was honestly curious. He had some involvement with Sherlock, and he didn't find it a wonder that the boy had no real friends to speak of. Sherlock wasn't well versed in social tact.

"Why?" John asked.

"I know his brother. I'm just curious as to how yer getting' on is all," Greg explained to him. Greg knew Sherlock in an odd kind of way. He had probably more interaction than the kind than almost anyone else in the school, but the boy baffled him beyond reason.

"He's...brilliant," John shrugged with a small frown. "Rude, and odd, but...brilliant. What's his brother like?" Greg laughed at that. Yeah, Sherlock was brilliant, though not many people were able to get past his raging asshole qualities to see it.

"Even more brilliant than Sherlock, if you'll believe it. Kind of a posh prick though," Greg gave a soft grin, all teeth. Mycroft always stood a little too straight, his speech always a little too formal and his interactions always a little too cold. Greg found it particularly infuriating because Mycroft had not always been that way, or at least not as bad about it. As a first year Mycroft had been proper but at least amiable.

They had been almost friends, as much as a Slytherin and a Gryffindor really could be, what with their class schedules differing so much. But his years at Hogwarts had made him more distant and more of a posh little prick, while Greg had been busy becoming Quidditch captain, prefect and then head boy. Aside from his Slug Club friends, it seemed Mycroft only had time to be around other Slytherins. Greg didn't factor into his schedule, not anymore, and Greg had too many other things to worry about to stop them from growing apart. Still, it was a sore spot with Greg that no mater how nice he tried to be, Mycroft always seemed to meet him with an airy chilled composure.

"They sound similar," John observed.

"They are, more so than either of them want to admit."

. . .

* * *

><p><strong>Part 2. A Mystery Presents Itself<strong>

_In which John discovers why Sherlock doesn't bother to do his homework in the first place._

Room 221B Ravenclaw tower was beginning to feel more and more like home to John. After only a few weeks all the Ravenclaws seemed to know him now. He was even getting better at answering the eagle's riddles on his own.

"It's important to remember-" Sherlock was saying, trying to help John understand the origin and importance of liverworts.

"Sherlock!" The door to 221B burst open. Gregson, one of the fifth year Gryffindor prefects, stood there panting. John knew him just on merit of living in the same area as him for a few years now. He had the air of someone who wanted desperately to be important but lacked the intelligence and people skills to make it happen quickly, and so had to rely on the slow and steady plod of time to raise him through the social ranks on seniority alone.

"Gregson, can't you knock or were you raised by crumple-horned snorklacks?" Sherlock said, his piercing eyes lifting to glare at the older boy.

"Lay off, Holmes. Lestrade sent me to get you," Gregson panted. "There's something you should see."

"A mystery?" Sherlock's eyes seemed to light up. He stood, his entire attitude shifting. Something far more interesting that remedial potions had presented itself to him.

"Something mysterious to be sure," Gregson replied. "Some Slytherin kids collapsed in the south courtyard today. Apparently the nurse doesn't know what happened to them, but there's foul play suspected. The headmaster told Lestrade to be on the look out but, Lestrade is baffled. He wants you to have a look."

Sherlock grabbed his blue and bronze scarf off the back of his chair and wrapped it around his neck quickly. "We'll resume tutoring later, John." He paused at the doorway. He seemed to be considering something for a long moment. "Would you like to come along?"

"You... want me to come with you?" John asked.

"...Yes. Another set of eyes can be helpful. You play sport, so you've seen plenty of injuries before. Maybe you'll be useful." Sherlock said, still definitive, but a little less sure of himself. "It'll be exciting."

"Well..." John stared at the strange boy in front of him. This seemed crazy. They were going to go check out some kind of crime scene it seemed. It was simply weird. "Ok," John said, because even he had to admit, he did like exciting things.

…

Sherlock blew into the hospital wing as though he owned the place, with John trailing behind him and Gregson a few steps behind. At the far end of the hospital wing, the nurse stood over one of the beds, placing a cool wash cloth over a small silver and green clad body. Lestrade hovered nearby, seemingly waiting for Sherlock to arrive.

John had heard that only a few years ago there at been a different nurse, a rather thin tall old woman who had finally seen enough sense to retire. The thin, rather short old woman who had replaced her acted as though she had lived and worked in that hospital wing her whole life though. John had met her a few times when he had gotten small Quidditch injuries here and there and had always found her to be pleasant.

"Oh Sherlock, dear," The nurse said. "Are you here to see -"

"Indeed, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said briskly.

"Were you friends?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock ignored the question and turned to Lestrade. It seemed that the professors had already been here and left, conducting their own investigation. "Tell me about the girls."

Lestrade nodded. "Both were found in the night by the grounds keeper. Seems like they had a late dinner, and were alone in the courtyard when...whatever happened to them happened," Lestrade explained. "This one is Effie Drebber. She's a fifth year Slytherin. One of the popular ones apparently. Pureblood background, well off father."

"Any family Death Eater connections?" Sherlock asked bluntly. John looked up sharply as Sherlock asked the question. He had been raised in the muggle world, and the entire subject of Death Eaters was something that was rather taboo it seemed. To hear a question like that asked so bluntly was rather jarring.

"No, no," Lestrade assured them. "Her oldest brother was in school when all that mess started, but was pulled out before the final battle. They kept out of the war. Neutral allegiance it seems."

"So probably not motivated by that. Interesting," Sherlock said.

"Did you think it was possible?" John asked.

"Anything is possible John. Certainly not all Slytherins were involved with the Death Eaters, and not all Death Eaters were former Slytherins, but there is a high correlation between a pureblood background and sympathies of that type. It doesn't hurt to check," Sherlock clarified. He turned back to Lestrade. "And the other?"

"Same bill. Gabby Strangerson, fifth year Slytherin. Popular. Family has no Death Eater connections either, before you ask."

"She's just over here, yes?" Sherlock walked over to Drebber. The Slytherin girl lay on the bed, eyes glazed over, her breathing soft. She was still in her school uniform, scarf draped around her neck. She had short brown hair, cut in a pixie cut, but her face was as pale as death. The sight made John's skin crawl. Sherlock was inspecting the body, running his fingers over the clammy skin, looking at the dilated pupils.

"And this?" Sherlock asked. He turned Drebber's wrist over to reveal half a word, smudged out. 'Sl' was all that was still readable.

"We couldn't make anything of it." Lestrade admitted.

"Slytherin, maybe?" John piped in, wishing he could contribute more to the conversation. "I mean, girls write notes on themselves sometimes. Little words and hearts and things. They're both Slytherins. It would make sense."

"Not enough ink to spell Slytherin," Sherlock said. He dropped the girl's wrist back on the bed.

"Bugger...do you think someone was trying to kill her, Sherlock?" John asked, staring down at the poor girl.

"Doubtful. Students don't just go around dropping dead in Hogwarts, John. It's not 1998 anymore. However this is poison to be sure. Mrs. Hudson, what kind of poison is this?" Sherlock asked as he moved to the next bed, looking over Strangerson. She too was in her school robes, pale and still.

"Can't say yet, love," Mrs. Hudson said softly. "Never seen anything like that. Not even old Horace would have something like this in his store rooms."

"Mysterious indeed." Sherlock turned the other girl's wrist. "And no way to make the girls better unless we know the poison of course. Can't make a antidote otherwise." He sucked on his teeth for a moment. "Only the S is still visible here, but it appears to be the same word. Look at the way the ink has dried on her skin, the way it sort of spreads out in the strokes. This was written while her skin was damp, clammy even. After she had been poisoned. Our poisoner left this note."

"What do you reckon?" Lestrade asked, clearly baffled.

"I'll need to see the crime scene. However, based on the slight swelling around her fingernails and lips, it seems very likely that the poison was taken orally. Probably in the Great Hall. A delayed reaction then. Someone slipped it in their food. That narrows it down at least. Come along, John!"

"So this is what you do then?" John asked. Just when he thought he had figured Sherlock out at least a little bit, the boy had thrown him another curve ball. He had taken Sherlock for a brilliant but anti-social kid, holing up with his books. Now Sherlock was leaping at the chance to go investigate a mystery? "Instead of your actual homework? This is why you didn't turn in your work to Slughorn in the first place? You go around solving..mysteries? Like a detective or something?"

"Yes," Sherlock said as he headed to the door. John considered that for a moment, concluded that, hey, detectives were rather exciting, and followed.

. . .

Sherlock walked around the courtyard several times, pacing. He seemed to be looking at footprints, but how he was gathering any information was beyond John. It had been raining in the mornings all week, and little tracks of mud ran rampant over the stones. It looked like on giant unreadable mess to him.

"Can I ask you something?" John asked, leaning against the wall of the courtyard. "Why do you do this? The professors are looking into this already, aren't they?"

"Of course they are, but they aren't me," Sherlock said, still pacing.

"Humble of you," John snorted.

"They don't see things the way I do. They don't observe. I've done this sort of thing before, and the adults always miss something," Sherlock explained testily. He took out a cheap quill and a roll of parchment. With a flick of his wand; thin, dark wood that seemed to swish like a twig; both items began to float behind him, the quill hovering just over the parchment.

"What's that?" John asked, watching with curiosity.

"Simple transcription charm. It will keep track of my notes. Now, I really must focus," Sherlock said and John leaned back on the wall to watch his new friend work. The courtyard was nearly empty at this time of day. Every now and then a pair or small group of students would walk through, but none lingered. John wondered if they were put off by Sherlock's erratic pacing and muttering.

Every few steps Sherlock would pause, suck his teeth, and then continue on his laborious tedious stroll, as though he needed a moment to log away some important note. He kept muttering under his breath, a constant and unabashed mental stream. "Lots of movement here, students bustling around. The mud is thin, moving fast. This one, an older student, by his gate almost six feet tall, running to class. Must have been late." Sherlock waved his hand towards the ground in front of him, as though showing the information to John.

John watched in fascination, trying to see the patterns in the mud that were so clear to Sherlock, but to no avail. What was clear to Sherlock was nothing but mud smears to him. Each word Sherlock said was scribbled onto the parchment that kept a running log of each observation as it floated behind him.

"This one is a skip. Young girl, stops, talks to her friends. But here we have very stationary foot prints." Sherlock stopped, his voice changing. He had found something important. "Someone stood here for a long time. Someone watching." He pointed to the mud. "Watching for what? To see their handiwork? To see what happened to the victims? And here is where Drebber fell, very little struggle. Here, Strangerson. Startled when Drebber fell most likely, and them collapses as well." Sherlock paused there for a moment, standing where Drebber had fallen, looking back towards where the mysterious foot prints had stood and watched.

Like a bloodhound who caught a scent, Sherlock let out a triumphant "Oh!" and rushed towards one of the bushes near the fountain. He dropped to his knees and plucked something out of the dirt. "Very, very good."

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"The most important clue yet." Sherlock turned and held out a quill. "Look at it. Right near the poisoner's foot prints. Look a the nub, the ink on it. This..."

"Is...the quill...that...wrote on the girl's wrist?" John said slowly, trying to see what Sherlock saw so clearly.

"Exactly! The poisoner's quill. No ordinary quill either. Look, an iridium tip, probably goblin made by the quality. Someone with a lot of money owned this quill. Someone who is going to be very upset that they lost it. This could be useful," Sherlock said and pocketed the quill. "Come along, John. To 221B. I need to think."

Off they went again. Life with Sherlock Holmes was an experience in 'hurry up and wait' it seemed. Still, he hadn't been lying when Sherlock told John it was exciting.

. . .

The bits of evidence they had collected sat spread out over the table of study room 221B. The quill, the scrap of parchment with "Sl" and "S" written on it as a visual reminder, and Sherlock's notes of the footprints in the mud were all they had to go on.

It was looking fairly hopeless to John. None of the assembled clues painted a picture. The quill was their best bet, but there were dozens of students on the school who could have lost a nice quill. Sherlock had fallen silent again. It was a deep imposing kind of silence, that suggested very heavily that any superfluous small talk would not be tolerated.

The door to 221B was propped open, letting a light breeze flutter into the room. Every now and then a Ravenclaw would pass by the door and glance inside, but they all let them be.

A small crack outside the door stole both Sherlock and John's attention. "Master Holmes! Master Holmes!" A small raggedy creature, all elbows and big eyes, standing at less than a meter came pattering into the room.

"Ah, hello there," Sherlock said to the little creature as though he had been waiting for it.

"Is that a house elf?" John furrowed his brow, staring at the small creature. The thing was tiny and strange looking.

John had seen very few house elves before. He knew they worked in the kitchens, and tidied the place up, but he had hardly ever actually seen any of them in the castle. With more and more house elves being freed every year with the help of some big house elf rights foundation, it was becoming less common to see them with their human masters in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. John remembered hearing in one of his classes that many newly-freed house elves were building their own villages out in the countrysides, and that seemed rather nice. Still, John had probably only seen a house elf in person one or two times in his whole tenure as a citizen of the magical world.

"They are my information network, always seeing and rarely seen," Sherlock explained curtly. "Now, Blinks, what have you found?"

"Yes, Master Holmes. I talked to all the elves. There were three students who were in or near the courtyard when the girls took ill. I wrote their names down for you!"

"Ah, very good I-" Sherlock began to say, just as a figure appeared in the door way.

"Oh, do get that _nasty_ little creature out of the tower, Holmes." An older boy with a Prefect badge scowled, glaring at Sherlock. He had apparently heard the noise the house elf had made upon entering and followed after it to put and end to the house elf's distracting loudness. "Some of us are trying to to real academic work here."

"Anderson, shut up. I can feel my wits numbing just being in the room with you. Insulting my house elf information network just proves how utterly blind to practicality, common sense and logic you truly are."

Anderson set his book down on the table and drew himself up, full of spite and ire it seemed. John had met several Ravenclaws ever since he began his tutoring with Sherlock, and many of them seemed to be very nice, friendly and open people, if a little easily distracted and prone to rambling about topics of interest. This boy however did not seem nearly as amicable, though that could have just been Sherlock's affect on him showing through. Sherlock did have a habit of bringing out the worst in people when he wasn't careful.

"You punk, I-" Anderson started, ready to rain Prefect justice down on the irksome younger boy. He never got the chance.

"I don't have time for you, Anderson. I have a plan now!" And with that Sherlock Holmes took off out of the room, and out of Ravenclaw tower, his cloak billowing behind him. John and Anderson were left, staring after him, utterly confused.

. . .

Greg sometimes felt as though he never really had a moment to himself. Between being head boy, captain of the Quidditch team, and feeling personally responsible for looking after the younger Gryffindors AND Mycroft's Holmes' impressively obnoxious brother, he barely had room to breathe. All he wanted was an hour, to himself, in the library, so he could catch up on some of his work, but it seemed as though that would be harder than he thought.

He had managed to slip out of Gryffindor tower without drawing the attention of Sally, or any of the other Quidditch kids and was halfway down the main stairs when he caught sight of Mycroft Holmes.

"Gregory," Mycroft said with a small tip of his head.

"Ah, Mycroft. Hi." Greg shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe. He tried to maintain his relaxed attitude, but Mycroft's highfalutin demeanor made him feel down right provincial. Mycroft's robes were always firmly pressed, his tie always straight, his gate always measured, and he always carried a charmed self-drying umbrella just in case there was a bit of a drizzle.

"Walk with me?" Mycroft said and began to stroll down the stairs at a leisurely place.

"Not like I have a choice, is it?" Greg fell into step beside Mycroft. "What did you need, Mycroft?" He wondered what could have possessed Mycroft to take a break from his normal pastime of gallivanting around with more impressive people than Greg.

"Tell me about John Watson."

Greg tried not to sigh audibly. So this was about Sherlock. That much should have been obvious. The one thing that could get Mycroft to drop the 'future leader of the free world' facade was trying to wrangle his little brother into line.

"Um...good kid. Third year. Decent Beater on the team," Greg said.

"Tell me, do you think he's trustworthy?" Mycroft was looking straight ahead as they finally reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Mycroft, look." Greg stopped walking and stepped in front of Mycroft. A few students drifted past them here and there, but for the most part they were alone in the huge cavernous hall. "I know you're worried about your brother. I promise you that John's a nice kid. I'll keep an eye on the situation. Promise. You know I look out for Sherlock when I can."

"Of course, I just-" Mycroft let a hint of worry eek across his face.

"You're brother has never had a friend before, I know. Mycroft, it will be ok. Last I heard Sherlock was dragging John around the castle, trying to solve the little mystery I clued him in on. It gave him something to do. Don't worry." Greg gave one of his lop-sided smiles that was all teeth.

Mycroft gave him a long look. The firm lines of his face softened slightly, making him look more human. "...thank you, Gregory."

"Hey, no problem." He let out a soft laugh. "You Holmes boys need someone to look after you." Greg reached out and grabbed the edge of Mycroft's sleeve. "You know I like helping you Mycroft. You don't gotta keep me at arm's length."

Mycroft pulled his wrist out of the touch and straightened the silver and green tie around his neck. "Of course, Gregory. It is the diplomatic thing to do."

"Mycroft," Greg sighed. Mycroft looked away, putting his 'leader of the free world' mask back on quickly. Greg had only managed to make it drop for a second.

"I should let you get back to whatever you were doing, yes?" Mycroft said and without so much as a goodbye, strolled off towards the dungeons and his own common room.

"Prick," Greg muttered just loud enough to offend one of the paintings on the wall.

. . .

John was sitting at his lunch table, eating a lovely pile of pudding when Darwin, Sherlock's tiny barn owl flew up and knocked over his pumpkin juice. It seemed as though John's initial delusion that befriending Sherlock Holmes would only result in two or three hours of tutoring a week was quickly being destroyed. He couldn't even eat lunch in peace anymore.

"Bloody bird..." John grumbled. "Darwin, what are you doing?" The tiny owl hooted and pecked at a small note wrapped around his leg. "What is this, then?" John unwrapped the little note from the bird and read it.

_'Lunch in the Library. If convenient, come. -SH. PS. If inconvenient, come regardless. I insist.' _

John stared at the note for a long while before giving up and packing his things. Lunch in the library it was then. "Come on Darwin," John said and scooped the tiny bird up.

For reasons unknown to John, Sherlock had insisted that they spend lunch in the library. Whenever asked about it however, John's companion refused to answer the question. Sherlock sat in silence, reading over a rough draft of an essay John had written for potions. Every few lines, Sherlock would suck his teeth and make a small disapproving noise, which truly wasn't making John feel very good.

There was the softest sound, a small clearing of a throat so tiny that it was barely there at all. John looked up to see a little Hufflepuff girl, holding a plate of cupcakes nervously. "I thought you boys might like some cupcakes."

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said without looking up.

Molly gave a small, flattered smile and placed the cupcakes on the table. She turned to John. "Hello. I'm Molly Hooper. I'm a second year," she said softly. Her hair was pulled into two pig tails and tied with yellow ribbon. She looked tiny, even for twelve. Her big, soft brown eyes seemed perpetually downcast in nervous modesty. John instantly felt the kind of familial affection reserved for young children and cute animals.

"Nice to meet you. I'm John Watson," he said kindly. "And thank you for the cupcakes."

"You're welcome," Molly said softly. "Um...I saw your ad in the school newspaper, John."

"Sorry, what?"

Molly held up a copy of the Hogwarts Quibbler, the weekly little newsletter that was printed up by the Hufflepuffs and circulated around to the apathetic populous. John had forgotten they had a school newspaper. It had been founded only the year before, and so far no one seemed to have noticed. "Um, it says right here. 'Lost Quill found in south courtyard. Iridium tipped. If yours, contact John Watson, Gryffindor. Saturday in the library at lunch. That's now. Isn't that why you're here?"

"I..."

"That was me. My name would be recognized," Sherlock said. "Couldn't risk it."

"You think the poisoner will fall for that? Just come for the quill?" John snorted.

"I do. People lose quills all the time. This one is clearly special. As soon as it was missed, the owner would have panicked. Would return to the scene of the crime looking, and seen it was gone. They would check all the message boards for lost and found notices, even checked the paper. Why would he assume that you, the upstanding Gryffindor that you are, have any idea about the crime and are not simply doing a noble deed? No, no, he will come. I already believe I know who it is."

"How so?" John asked.

"Not many students in this school could afford a quill that nice, or the poison for that matter," Sherlock explained. "Given that information, I can narrow down the list Blinks gave me. If my suspect arrives we will know he is our man."

So they waited. John looked over the notes Sherlock had prepared for him on his essay while eating cupcake after cupcake. Molly seemed pleased he liked him, if a little disappointed at Sherlock's insistence that he couldn't eat during a case.

"Digestion slows my mind," he insisted and took to tapping his knuckles on the table, and staring at the door in bored, agitated restlessness.

Finally, after nearly thirty tiresome minutes, a boy, tall, thin, with dark hair walked into the library. He spotted the small group and walked over. He was clearly nervous and trying very hard to appear as though he wasn't.

"John Watson?" the older boy said. "Um...you found my quill?"

"Oh, um, yes, I-" John said, looking to Sherlock.

Sherlock was fast, pulling out his wand. "Petrificus totalus!" The boy froze up and hit the floor with a hard thud. "Jefferson Hope," Sherlock said triumphantly. "Seventh year Hufflepuff. Quidditch seeker. Younger sister is in Slytherin I believe. Good old family, the Hopes. Just as I assumed." Sherlock turned to Molly. "Molly. Go fetch Lestrade for me, would you? He should be in the Great Hall at the moment."

"Of course Sherlock!" Molly ran off in a nervous rush to find Greg.

"Are you completely mental?" John asked, staring down at the stunned boy on the floor. "You have to be mental. You can't just curse people in a library, Sherlock!"

"Just help me prop him up," Sherlock said dismissively.

"And why Lestrade? Why not...oh, I don't know, AN ADULT?" John demanded.

"Because adults don't listen as well, and wouldn't be as reasonable about my methods for restraining him," Sherlock said calmly. "Now, help me with him."

John gave a suffering sigh, an occurrence that was becoming rather common in his interactions with Sherlock. It only took a moment for Greg to arrive. John had helped Sherlock prop Jefferson Hope up in a chair.

"Bloody Hell, Sherlock. Assaulting students in the Library? I should take points..." Greg said, shaking his head. "I was eating."

"But I caught your poisoner, just as you asked," Sherlock said proudly and pointed his wand at the older boy. With a small flick, he released the spell. "Tell us why you did it, Jefferson. And don't lie."

Jefferson Hope looked around the assembled group. The guilt was clear as day on his face. It took him a moment to choke back his emotions and speak. At long last he was able to manage a few words. "They were going to ruin my sister's life. I had to do it."

"Well that sounds incredibly overdramatic," Greg said with a quirked eyebrow.

"They...They were going to spread rumors about her. They..." The boy took a small breath. "My sister...Lucy is a Slytherin as well. Drebber and Strangerson...they were going to tell everyone she was...sleeping around. They told my sister they were going to make sure everyone in the castle knew she was a...a slut. I had to shut them up somehow! I had to make them stop!"

"That's...awful," Molly said softly. "But...poison?"

"I knew it wouldn't kill them. I had to protect my sister! She's only 13, and those girls were going to destroy her life."

"Noble. Very loyal of you, very Hufflepuff," Sherlock said to the older boy. "And an understandable motive. All very simple in the end it seems. So, the word on their wrists...you wrote 'slut' didn't you? You wanted them to get a taste of their own medicine."

"I know it was petty," Jefferson Hope said miserably. "But-"

"I don't care," Sherlock said swiftly. "Pettiness is to be expected. Now, an important question: Where did you get the poison?"

"I...I can't tell you." The older boy was staring at his shoes. His eyes had dropped, too ashamed to look at his captors any longer.

"Oh, I think you can." Sherlock shoved his wand behind his ear and crossed his arms over his chest.

"No, really. It was all done with owls," Jefferson explained. "I got an owl. Someone said they could help me silence them, for a price. There was never a name attached. They sent me the poison." He shook his head. "I really, really don't have a name. Use veriteserum if you must. I'm telling the truth. They were school owls too. I never had a way of getting any clues."

"Clever." Sherlock nodded. "Owl order crime. Interesting. Still, I think that counts as a confession all the same, yes, Lestrade?"

"Oh yes," Lestrade said and grabbed the boy by the elbow, pulling him up. "You are coming with me. We're going to see the headmaster." Jefferson allowed himself to be led off without further fight.

As Greg dragged Jefferson Hope off to the Headmaster, John turned to Sherlock. "That was a good bit of detective work, Sherlock."

"Oh, well, thank you John." Sherlock's face struggled into its unfamiliar smile again. John had realized that is friend was incredibly sensitive to compliments.

"Shame not more people in the school know about it," John continued.

"Spreading gossip is boring."

"I just mean...You'd get to solve more mysteries if people knew how good you were. There's the Hogwarts Quibbler after all. It's mostly just recipes, lost and found notices, and bad jokes but...I bet they'd love to print this story." John had the idea earlier that day, and with such a riveting ending, it seemed like a good idea. "We could change names for people's privacy."

"And what? You're my scribe, John?" Sherlock asked, still smiling.

"Could be."

"...if you like," Sherlock said at last.

. . .

* * *

><p><strong>Part 3. The New Order of Things.<strong>

_In which our characters reflect on the strange nature of John and Sherlock's Friendship._

"Would you like some more port, professor?" Mycroft Holmes asked, pouring the burgundy liquid into a port sipper.

"Ah, thank you, my boy. So tell me, Mycroft," Professor Slughorn said as he took a moment to appreciate the deep, sweet aroma of the port. "Your brother is so very clever. It seems a shame for him to have been made a Ravenclaw instead of following in your footsteps. Slytherin would suit him well, give him a way to harness all that cleverness. What happened there?"

Mycroft gave a small shrug. "My brother has the mind of a great alchemist or sorcerer, and yet he spends his time romping around with Gryffindors, solving mysteries. I can deduce very little about his heart, sir."

"A kind and insightful answer, my dear boy," Slughorn said, sipping his drink. "What of this Gryffindor boy your brother is romping around with now? That...Watson boy. Muggleborn yes?"

"So I've heard. They seem to be a rather impressive duo." Mycroft wasn't sure he was happy about it either. Gregory had assured him that Watson was a trustworthy fellow, but it did little to assuage his anxieties. Any half way cunning boy could see the merit in manipulating Sherlock, and his brother might be dim enough to let his guard down around people who showed him the affection and doled out the praise he wanted. He was considering sending Anthea to entice Watson into a meeting in the near future.

"Impressive indeed! I've never seen your brother spend much time with other students," Slughorn bubbled. The professor took a great deal of delight in student gossip.

"Neither have I, sir," Mycroft said. "However, I do rather think that Watson may be a positive influence on my brother. Better than the alternative."

"A politician's answer indeed, Mycroft!" Slughorn let out a deep laugh. "Do tell me again what your plans are after you graduate, Mycroft, my boy."

"Politics sir. Though I only aspire to attain a minor position in the ministry."

"Indeed, indeed. You'll have the minister eating out of your hand in a year." Slughorn let out an uproarious laugh.

Mycroft just gave a sly smile.

. . .

The weather, for once, was fair and breezy, and staying in doors seemed like a sin. Even Ravenclaw tower, with it's high, wide, bright windows felt stiflingly when the world outside was practically bursting with autumnal crispness and beauty. In light of the glorious weather, John had managed to drag Sherlock out of his tower and into the north courtyard for their tutoring session.

The north courtyard got the best sun to shade ratio and just the right amount of wind, and it made even Sherlock more cheerful than normal. Darwin and Gladstone shared a small bowl of chopped peanuts while their owners reviewed the properties of various common potion ingredients.

John was reading down the list of terms one more time before Sherlock was going to quiz him. He kept confusing when he should use eye of newt and when he should use pickled flubberworm eggs. Sherlock, on the other hand, was looking over the school newspaper.

There, between the weekly list of recipes that were "guaranteed to make any group study session tasty and fun!" and the "jokes that could make even the gargoyles chuckle!" was a small story about Sherlock Holmes and his little mystery.

"A Study in Sapphire?"

"Well you are a Ravenclaw, Sherlock," John said. "And you study a lot. I think it's a good intro piece. Helps let people get to know you for the future stories."

Sherlock snorted and took the notes from John's hands. "Future stories. Hmp. Enough of this. Time for your quiz."

John gave a groan, but didn't complain. He did hope, however, that Molly would be kind enough to find them soon and share some more of her baked goods to make the studying "tasty and fun," like the recipe she had written for the paper promised.

. . .

Two boys stood on the second floor balcony that overlooked the courtyard where Sherlock and John sat, going over a page of potion notes. The two boys stood in shadow, expertly hidden from view.

The smaller boy had a predator grin on his face. The silver and green of his clothes had a way of making him look dangerous. He had short black hair, and grey eyes, his skin nearly ashen in color. He hardly looked human in the dim light. He was watching Sherlock and John with fascination. Every few seconds or so a small giggle would erupt from him.

The taller boy stood next to him, clad in yellow and black, a joint rolled between his fingers. Sandy blond hair, and dull blue eyes made him look utterly normal. The single scar that ran across his lower lip was the only thing about him that made him stand out. He looked utterly normal, just another forgettable Hufflepuff at first glance. He used to play Quidditch, but ever since he had gotten kicked off the team for "excessive fouling" he had found that spending too much time around his fair-minded house mates less than enjoyable. Just because he had hospitalized a Slytherin player with his beater bat, they all acted like he was a little unsafe.

"That Sherlock boy really is clever." The smaller boy giggled. "He should have been in Slytherin, don't you think? He's wasted in Ravenclaw with all those bookworms," he said, watching Sherlock in the courtyard below. "Sebastian, are you listening?"

"If you say so, Jim." The taller boy took a deep hit off the joint in his hand. He breathed out the strong smelling smoke, filling the air with the pungent scent. He let out a relaxed sigh, savoring the low buzz he got.

"You know I hate the smell of that crap, Basher," the boy named Jim whined, looking over at him with his cold eyes. "Dirty muggle plant."

"Get over it. Find me some magic weed that works half this well, and I'll talk. But selling this shit is how we fund most of your pet projects, Jim. Including this whole mess that the baby Holmes buggered up," Sebastian snorted. "That poison wasn't cheap, and you sold it for less than we bought it."

"The point of the poison wasn't to make money. It was the fun of it all. Drebber and Strangerson were bitches anyway," he said. "Now, Tsk tsk. You shouldn't use your own product. Isn't that a rule? Skimming off the top is bad for business."

"Like you care," Sebastian snorted. He leaned over, grabbing Jim by his neck tie and pulled him close. He exhaled a breath of smoke slowly into Jim's mouth, their lips mere centimeters apart, close enough to kiss. The fragrant smoke swirled between them, curling in the air like greedy tendrils, searching for lungs to fill. Jim breathed in the smoke slowly, his eyes fluttered shut and he gave a low hum.

"You're such a faggot, Sebastian," Jim breathed out the second hand smoke.

"Oh shut up, Jim." Sebastian snorted and took another hit. "I don't need this shit from you." Sebastian had known Jim since their first day on the train, but it wasn't until he was unceremoniously booted from the Hufflepuff Quidditch team last year that he had found himself spending any measure of time with the other boy. Jim was dangerous, and without the thrill of dangerous competitive sports to fill his time, Sebastian craved the danger. He oversaw the practical side of Jim's operations, the funding, the legwork. Jim was the dream weaver.

"Oh boo-hoo. Such a cry baby, Basher. But fine, I won't complain." Jim raised his hands in surrender and turned back to the courtyard. "Now, we're going to have to watch out for that Sherlock kid. He looks like he'll end up being a lot of fun."

"Whatever you want Jim."

"That's my good little badger," Jim cooed.

"Mhm." Sebastian took another hit. _Sherlock Holmes.._.sounded like a pain in the ass to him.

XXX

[[Author's Note: Thank you all for reading Chapter 1 of 221B Ravenclaw Tower. I'd like to take a moment to thank my boyfriend especially for helping me with this project every step of the way. So far this fic as been a lot of fun to play with, and I'm looking forward to writing more chapters in the future.

If you'd like to follow my WIP notes, I tend to post updates on the chapter I'm working on at my tumblr; .

Every review, comment, suggestion, etc is wildly appreciated. They always make my day. :)

Also, though this has been beta'd and read over several times, there is always a chance that a typos was missed, or a mistake of some kind made. If you notice any that escape my attention, I'd love to have it pointed out to me so it can be fixed prompty.

Next Chapter: A Scandal with Boggarts. ]]


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